James Madison University - Bluestone Schoolmaam Yearbook (Harrisonburg, VA)

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Patchwork THERE are some beautiful pieces in my college patchwork quilt. Some are delicate, fragile colors, soft blues and pinks and greens, the color of new grass. They are the sacred memories about which one speaks in a hushed voice, or does not speak at all. Some of these deepen into lovely hues, azure and rose and sea-green, along with development and growing experience. And some of the pieces are the vivid reds and flaming purples of the dying sun as it gloriously suffuses with brilliant color the white clouds in a blue sky above bluer mountains. They are the experiences which will always stand out clearly in my memory — a high point of achievement, the touch of a comrade ' s hand, the discovery of a kindred soul. Some of the pieces in my quilt are tiny, and some are very large. Some have queer, accidental shapes, and some have beautiful outlines. The variety of size and contour makes it all the more interesting — this quilt of mine. Yes, it is a gorgeous thing, and its riot of color seems almost to glow with life and youthful vitality. But it is stitched in black — the sombre thread of failure and discouragement. Death THERE is an atmosphere of aching hearts and painful self-restraint in the long, low farmhouse, with its towering trees which have protected it for two centuries. There is the multled tread of people hurrying to and fro and a vague unrest which comes to a place where black Death has claimed his own. In front of tbe house already are many cars, and in the back yard is a group of Negroes, with bared heads, come to pay their last respects to the best-loved man of the community. In the house are many tight-pressed lips and tear-blurred eyes that are the veil of grief-shrouded hearts. Rut in one small room there is a wonderful peace and calm. This room is fragrant and colorful with many, many flowers. On his last couch, luxurious in its gray- ness, like the silver of his hair, lies a sweet old man with lightly closed eyes. A breeze slightly ripples the transparent cloth above his head and he seems t( i breathe easily in pleasant slumber. Let everyone tread softly here : Columbus Pumphrev is asleep. —V. K. S. £214]

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Glimmer A star peeks in my window every night, And when I feel it shining on my pillow 1 turn and look to find my lovely star. But when I gaze, the sky is blue and void — No star, no gleam. Some trick was played upon me ! I turn my head away in secret sorrow, And there my star shines whiter than before. Rondeau The snow lies deep in Blue Ridge hills. It buries gently woodland rills And trees and bushes, gleaming white. ft blankets all my world tonight And covers soft this heart it chills. The sifting snow in silence stills Each shattered bit. So grind the mills Of gods. On every dreamed delight The snow lies deep. The love that brought my heart such thrills Now stabs it through with anguish, kills The lingering flame and puts to flight The soul of beauty. Small and slight. The sunken grave so slowly fills. The snow lies deep. — Sarah Lemmon [213]

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Freshman Biology Laboratory FROGS? They will haunt me forever! For two hours each week tor one whole quarter we labored over evil-smelling frogs. After the way I treated my frog I shall never be able to look a living-self-respecting Rana Pipiens in the face. It was the luck of my partner and myself to get a specimen that still croaked. Although he had been dead and pickled for some time, a gentle pressure on his ribs was all that was necessary to call forth a strident protest that brought looks of amazement to the faces of all my classmates. As we are just freshmen and still like to play, we took advantage of this, since he continued to croak until we removed his lungs. We allowed the poor frog no privacy. After diligently studying his exterior, we started on his interior via his mouth. Inwardly apologizing to Nebuchadnezzar, as we had fondly dubbed him, I broke his jawbone and looked down his throat. That was not enough. At the next laboratory period we skinned him and discovered unheard of things concerning muscles. After depleting his jumping apparatus, we started on his circulation, and then on his nerves. We traced his digestive system, and now I know what becomes of poor unsuspecting flies who hover too near sleepy-looking frogs. We completelv demolished him; there was nothing left of him at the end of the quarter but four skinless legs, part of a backbone, and the jaw that I so cruelly broke. — Jean Long Disillusionment THE etchings were all that we had imagined — scene after scene of the quaint, beautiful streets: glimpses of old black mammies, leaning over balconies and calling to their charges at play below; enchanting views of old Saint Michael ' s towering above trees and buildings; finely-wrought iron gate- ways symbolizing the glamour and aristocracy of the old South. We seemed to he walking the very streets of old Charleston. Charleston, home of my mother ' s mother and her forebears ! Charleston, city of my dreams, all the dearer for the fact that I had never been able to visit it ! I drew my friend up before a picture of two gigantic trees. See, I pointed out. Aren ' t they symbolic of that Queen-city of the South? Don ' t they have an air of stately pride in glorious ancestry, which is the epitome of Charlesto n? We drew closer to read the inscription in the corner of the etching. It said simply : Beeches. Sussex, England. — Winifred Warren [213]